bars – aMediocreMan

A hipster goes to a sports bar

This is from my blog: www.hipsterstories.wordpress.com

(According to one person that read the story: “It’s probably one of the best hipster/emo love stories ever told,” Anonymous.

After reading the email from Clemmy, Jude was confused, distraught and embarrassed.

Dear Clemmy,

Thanks for being honest with me. I understand, but I don’t understand, I mean I think I understand.

Anyway, I’m going to put my phone up for a while and go somewhere where no one knows my name…..you know, the opposite of the show Cheers.

Peace out,

Jude

He decided to drink his confusion away, but wanted to go somewhere different, somewhere where he could sit at the corner of a bar and fade into his glass. He walked a few blocks and ended up at Buffalo Wild Wings sports bar.

He walked in with his head down and sat at the last open bar stool at the far corner of the bar. There were televisions everywhere, each showing a different type of sport.

Jude ordered a PBR tall boy and started guzzling while the television above him played a girls college softball game. He stared at the game with a dazed look and was somewhat turned on by the girls playing, but was worried that they looked a little too much like men. He continued to guzzle.

The bartender walked up to him and placed a Jager shot in front of him.

“Easy man, I didn’t order that. I’m not trying to get that drunk,” Jude said.

“The two guys at the end of the bar over there sent you that shot,” the bartender said pointing in their direction.

Jude looked to where he pointed and his mouth nearly hit the floor. It was the two jocks from Randall’s the other day and they were walking towards him.

Jock 1 took Judes PBR tall boy from his hand and poured the rest of it into Jude’s lap. Jude sat there frozen and terrified as Jock 2 said, “Oh look, poor little fedora boy pissed his pants in public.”

“Enjoy that shot, because it’s your last drink in here. This is our bar, keep your stinky ass down the street at Randall’s or wherever else you hang out. If we see you in here again, we are going to shove that fedora up your ass,” said Jock 1.

The bartender walked over and asked if everything was alright.

“Just so you know, I’m going to Yelp this later and it won’t be pretty,” Jude replied defiantly.

Then he dropped some cash on the bar and walked out of the bar covering his wet crotch with his fedora.

“Thanks a lot Clemmy, thanks a fucking lot,” Jude said to himself as he walked home in despair.

Chuck the Chicken- a Florida bar

roo I parked on a side street and walked towards the bar. A couple was sitting at one of the tables directly next to the bar door.

The man looked liked a biker; he was tall, too thin (almost crack thin), had a black skull & bones do-rag on his head, old stonewashed jeans and roughed up leather boots. He was smoking Marlboro Reds and drinking beer from a tall glass.

The woman with him looked worn. Her leathery skin made her look about 55 years old, but she was probably 30. She had what local Floridians call “crocodile” skin; dry and cracked. She seemed a little fucked up. Not drunk, probably just some pills.

She had a white chicken on her left shoulder. He/she was just sitting on her shoulder looking nervously around, like chickens do.

“Is that a chicken on a crocodile-skinned woman’s shoulder sitting outside a bar,” I silently asked myself. I knew 100% that I had never dropped acid, but I was suddenly wondering if someone slipped me some.

People walking by were marveling at this sight. Apparently I wasn’t the only person dumbfounded by this fuckery.

A man stopped and asked her, “Is that a pet chicken, can I pet it?”

Crocodile-skin lady smiled, revealing a missing tooth right where the vampire tooth is supposed to be, “Yep, he’s our pet chicken. His name is Chuck. Yep, Chuck the Chicken. Go ahead and pet him,” she said. Continue reading “Chuck the Chicken- a Florida bar”

beach bar- (florida east coast)

(This is a crappy bar I go to sometimes while working. It’s always an incredible trainwreck and I can’t stop going. I know I’m an asshole, thanks.)

It’s a Wednesday night around 7:30.

Barback– guy with American flag bandana, dancing behind the bar, throwing his lighter in the air like a drunk Muppet, trying to catch it, like he’s at Burning Man, but he’s fucking not at Burning Man

Bartender– cute, but worn, searching for something more, she could do better than this. She meanders behind the bar languidly, like a beaten puppy, just hoping for some decent drunk to pet her and scratch behind her ear.

Manager– bad hand tattoos, walking around like he’s something, talking to one of the regulars at the bar, making him a stronger drink than he needs, hoping for that 40% tip.

All of them, eyeing me like I’m the fuck-up, if they only knew…..

New couple- sits next to me at the bar, she’s cute, but you can tell the husband is fatter than when they met, she’s bitching about wanting a frozen drink, fat husband remains indifferent to her bitching. She’s definitely tired of his dick, sad because he actually seems like a nice guy, but damn she’s such a bitch. Continue reading “beach bar- (florida east coast)”

destroying a toilet

(I have some deep-seeded public restroom issues.)

The Scene: My wife and I at a tapas restaurant sitting at the bar.

The Event: I felt a pain in my stomach that almost knocked me off my bar stool. Although loud music playing in the bar area, I think everyone in the place could hear the rumble inside my belly. I told my wife I had to pee and found the bathroom.

It was like a mini-gastric-earthquake ripping through my body. I dropped my pants and the second my pasty, white cheeks touched the porcelain seat, EXPLOSION!!! It was like a giant cow patty. Final, relief was mine…….. for the moment.

The Problem: I cleaned myself and reached to flush. HOLY, FUCKING, SHIT………… the toilet would not flush. MAYDAY, MAYDAY………the toilet would not flush.

I pulled the back lid off and started tinkering with the mechanical innards, but nothing worked. My cow patty was not going anywhere.

Decision time: I washed my hands quickly and carefully cracked the door to see if anyone was waiting in the hallway. The coast was clear so I walked briskly back to the bar and stood next to my wife at the bat.

“Wow, that sure was a long pee. Aren’t you going to sit down,” she said.

“Nope, it’s time to go. We have to leave now,” I said as I put down plenty of cash next to our plates.

As we were walking out the door, I looked back over my shoulder and noticed a few employees gathering in the bathroom where I left my destruction.

Relief, it was a close call.

another hotel bar

Another hotel bar; I’m on the corner bar stool, minding my own shit, hoping no one tries to talk to me, only thing I want to say is “Yes, one more please.”

Another business man, probably mid 40’s and a little fatter than most, sat down next to me, his eyes scanned the rest of the bar, looking for some strange pussy, hoping some desperate clit will let him in. His Brooks Brothers button up is wrinkled from sitting behind a computer for the past 8 hours and there are visible pit stains. He should work out more, he’s too puffy for a hookup, especially given the 10 to 1 male to female ratio. That’s the typical ratio, damn the women are “lucky.”

He ordered a Glenlivet neat. Shit, the puffy man has bigger balls than most. He’s really trying to impress, really trying to show the rest of the bar that his expense account is for real.

The bartender took notice, but only because the scotch means her tip should be bigger. Her bangs and wrinkled forehead tell me that she’s either 25 or 50 and she’s probably seriously questioning her life choices. He will talk to her about his two divorces, child support and how he’s hoping to retire to South Florida one day and buy a boat. “Do you like boats,” he asked her. She says she that she does, but only because she has to say that so she can make a payment on her Boost mobile cell phone the next morning before it gets shut off again. Continue reading “another hotel bar”

night at a beach bar

it’s night, I’m at a bar across from a beach, east coast of Florida

The Cook– Skinny, white-trash looking guy with American flag bandana dancing oddly behind the bar, throwing his lighter into the air. He looks like a drunk Muppet, spinning around as he tries to catch it, like he’s at Burning Man, but let me be clear, he’s fucking not at Burning Man. Must be a bored cook….. people would have to be desperate to order food from this hole of shit bar.

Bartender– she’s kind of cute, nice brown hair and her skin appears somewhat innocent. Her strained smile and lack of amusement for the drunk Muppet gives her motive away…… searching for something more than this place. Good luck honey, don’t let those tips suck your life away.

The Manager– bad hand tattoos, walking around like he’s something, a real fucking big shot. Talking to an old dude who is probably a regular, making him a stronger drink than he needs, hoping for that 40% tip.

All of them, eyeing me like I’m the fuck up….. if they only knew.

The Couple– they walk in and sit close to me. She’s cute, in that trashy kind of way women look cute to me when I’ve had eight beers or so. Husband is fatter than when they met, she’s bitching and whining about wanting a frozen drink.

Fat husband sits silent as she argues with the manager, he’s probably seen this shit a few times before and he’s tired of it. Just like she’s probably tired of his gut and his dick, she gives zero fucks about embarrassing him. Kind of sad, because he actually looks nice, but damn she’s a bitch. She’s un-fucking-pleaseable. Continue reading “night at a beach bar”

douche flute in cuff links

“I’m a salad kind of guy,” he said as the waitress looked away in disdain. Understandable disdain from her considering this was a sports bar, not Tavern on the fucking Green.

He wore tight designer jeans, way too expensive shoes, a royal blue blazer and diamond-studded cuff links that were protruding aggressively outward so everyone could see. He was fit, had great skin and tight cropped hair, almost military hair. And yes, his teeth were fucking perfect too.

He had wireless iPod ear buds, so it was nearly impossible to tell if he was speaking with someone in real life or someone from his contact list. A contact list full of hundreds of people who aren’t his friends, but just people who somehow make him money.

He continued to engage the waitress. “Do you have any healthier options.” In an increasingly strained tone, she apologized and said that was the only menu they had. I could feel her hatred growing and I understood it. Everyone at the bar understood it.

He ordered a grilled chicken salad with balsamic dressing on the side and a Stella draft.

As if I didn’t already know, his beer order solidified the fraud. Someone who dresses like him should never drink a Stella. Stella is just a fancier version of Coors Light. What a cunt. Continue reading “douche flute in cuff links”